Chapitre Trente-Deux: Christine Écrit une Lettre
Christine got very little sleep that night, and the following morning found her sitting awake on her large, plush bed, trying so hard to think that she had already given herself a headache. She had watched the sun rise beyond the balcony as she had thought, and as the world had gone from obdurate darkness to a soft and rosy red, she had reasoned out her feelings.
She felt terribly hurt by Raoul's deception, but the unbearable pain sprang from the fact that he had not been planning on marrying her throughout the months that he had been assiduously courting her. She felt sick and used, and for the first time since she had arrived, the thought of food made her ill.
At first—when it had still been dark outside—she had considered bidding Raoul a cold goodbye and leaving the mansion. It would serve him right. After she was gone, he would realize what an awful mistake he had made. And even if he begged and pleaded and swore undying love, she would never allow him in her presence again, even if he was the patron of the opera house. In her anger, she tried to pack all her things, but realized (with some surprise and no small amount of depression) that none of the clothes, jewelry, or food belonged to her. And as the light filtering into the room had slowly grown, and all the beautiful curtains, tapestries, gowns and jewels were revealed, she had paused to reconsider.
By the time the sun was almost fully-risen, she had thrown out her impulse to leave. Raoul's prior intent didn't change any of the splendorous wealth that would be hers, nor did it change the title she so desperately craved: Christine, Vicomtess de Chagny. Raoul might have had poor intentions at first, but he loved her so much now that he was willing to sacrifice his honor to marry her. She was still loved, still fabulously wealthy, and still engaged to the Vicomte de Chagny, no matter whom he had been engaged to against his will when he had met her. It wasn't his fault, poor man, if his family had forced a marriage upon him—in fact, it was marvelously brave and inspiring that he was willing to break away from tradition and familial expectations to follow his heart.
When the sun was bright and completely visible beyond the balcony, she had felt good enough to change into one of the morning dresses Raoul had bought for her, apply complementing makeup, and leave her room.
As she entered the room where breakfast was held, Raoul rose from the table and swept across the room to meet her. Philippe was nowhere in sight—he usually took his breakfast in the library—for which she was glad. It would be better to talk to Raoul alone.
"My love," Raoul said, kissing her hand with the utmost of gentility, "you look positively radiant in the morning sunshine."
The sunshine he spoke of, streaming through the glass roof of the winter breakfast room in cold white beams, blinded her as she looked up at him. "Thank you," she said belatedly, squinting so that she could discern his features. He didn't seem concerned at all. In fact, he was acting as if he had absolute confidence that she wouldn't leave because of his terrible pronouncement the night before. It deflated her a little—she had been expecting him to fall to his knees and beg her to stay.
"At my request," continued Raoul, still holding her hand, "the chef has prepared a selection of supreme delicacies for your especial enjoyment." He bowed and gestured to the table, and she allowed him to seat her in front of a large tray of strawberry tarts.
She sampled one and was delighted by the exquisite flavor. "They're wonderful," she said.
"I'm glad to hear that," Raoul replied, sitting down across from her. After a moment of expectant silence, he said tentatively, "I hope that you were not upset by my untimely declaration last night, my darling—I spoke very poorly."
She bit into another tart as an excuse not to reply, wondering what he was going to say.
"My prior engagement—though forced upon me—has dogged my every thought for the last two months, and I knew it was unforgivably wrong to deceive you, but whenever I was near you, whenever I thought of you…" He clutched his heart in illustration of his words. She couldn't see his face very clearly (the room really was absurdly bright), but she was certain his expression was one of remorse and devoted love. "Whenever I thought of you, my petal, my precious, I was so overcome by love that I couldn't bring myself to break off contact with you. And as I fell more and more in love, I was so afraid of losing your love that I didn't dare tell you the truth about my engagement." He stretched his hand out across the table, in supplication. "My darling, I pray you understand."
Overcome with flattery, Christine spared no time in accepting his hand and squeezing it in her own. "I understand," she assured him, feeling very noble and compassionate. No other woman would be able to see past her own jealousy to the love and desperation that her fiancé held for her.
"I knew you would," he said, smiling, and stood. He clapped his hands, and after several moments, a servant appeared with a stack of boxes. "I've been trying to find a time to give these to you, my precious, as promises of my undying love."
Christine dusted the crumbs from her hands and hurried to the large parcels, which the servant had deposited on the opposite end of the table. She debated for a moment about which to open first, then picked the largest one, ripped away the ribbon, and threw off the lid.
"Oh, Raoul!" she cried, holding up the silk gown inside. "It's absolutely beautiful!"
"I bought matching jewelry for it as well," he said, smiling at her delight.
"Oh, Raoul, I love you! It's so beautiful! It must have cost a king's—oh!" she cried again, as she lifted the lid from a small box to reveal a sparking diamond choker.
"Here, let me help you try it on," Raoul offered.
As she lifted her hair out of the way to allow him to fasten the choker around her neck, she couldn't repress a giggle of happiness. How she could ever have considered leaving was quite incomprehensible to her now.
Raoul spend the entire day showering her with fabulous gifts and assuring her of his undying love; she couldn't ever remember a more wonderful day.
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The following morning, she awoke early to fetch the ink and paper Philippe had kindly given her to write a letter to Mamma. She reached under the velvet chaise, on which she was sitting, to retrieve her fountain pen, trying to think of what else to include in her letter. She felt a little guilty that she hadn't written Mamma sooner; the poor woman must be frantic by this time. But everything had been so beautiful, so wonderful, like a faerie tale come true, that it had quite slipped her mind. Still searching the carpet for her pen, she read over her letter:
"Dear Mamma:
I'm sorry I haven't written earlier. I'm sure the past four six days have been horrible for you. Everything is wonderfull here. The food is excellent and I get to wear the most beautyfull clothes in the world. I'm going to marry him. He says I can't leave because of the numoneea but I'm sure you can come see me and try some of this marvo marvellus food."
The food was wonderful, but she was exaggerating her happiness so Mamma wouldn't worry; even if she could resolve her hurt concerning Raoul's lie, he was still acting so strangely, and all the food and beautiful clothing in the world couldn't make up for the loneliness and regret that she was constantly pushing away. It didn't make any sense. She wasn't sure of anything anymore.
Her hand closed around something and she brought it out from under the chaise. To her surprise, it was a piece of chocolate. She supposed she had dropped it yesterday when she had gotten so flustered about accidentally breaking the delicate scrollwork on the back of the chaise (she had been laying upside-down with her head off the seat and her legs resting on the scrollwork, which hadn't been quite as durable as she had thought). She bit her lip and ate the chocolate, which was still good, and hoped that no one would notice the poor job she had done of fixing the chaise.
A moment more of searching yielded her pen (fortunately not leaking, as most fountain pens did; she didn't want to ruin anything else) and added to the page,
"You'll be happy to know that Raoul's brother, Philippe, has been teaching me all about Christianity."
She thought for a long moment, but couldn't think of anything else to say. What she had written seemed sufficient, so she signed her name, dabbed it with an ink blotter (also thoughtfully provided by Philippe), and set it on the floor.
At that moment a knock came at her door, and Christine sat up. "Come in," she called, licking the chocolate off her fingers.
Raoul entered, looking dashing and well-groomed (trying to make up for his scruffiness the other night, she assumed), and proclaimed, "Good morning, my beauteous bluebell! And how are we today?"
Upon seeing him—so handsome, so marvelously dressed, so obviously devoted to her courtship—the last bitter dregs of her unhappiness dissolved. It didn't matter if he had been engaged to someone else. Nothing mattered except that he loved her and was going to make her a vicomtess. She opened her mouth to tell him all this, but he kept talking:
"I know you aren't pleased with Philippe's simple, unaffected breakfasts, so I have instructed the cook to include première douceur and a soufflé."
She treated him to a brilliant smile. "Oh, Raoul, thank you! What does that mean?"
"Première douceur is a coffee gelée that has—" Suddenly his eyes locked on the balcony, and his face, so warm and charming, turned cold and hard.
"I told you not to leave this open!" he snapped, striding over to slam the balcony doors shut. "And keep it locked! Something could get to you!"
"But the plague can't get to me, way up here—"
"I don't mean the plague,Christine, I mean the Phantom!"
"He already came," she said without thinking.
Raoul whirled around, and his face was so contorted and his eyes so bright with rage that he looked like a devil. "WHAT?!"
She clapped a hand to her mouth, horrified. "H-he was here a few days ago, but I—"
Before she could finish, something hard hit her face, sending her staggering. As she recovered from the stinging blow, she realized with cold shock that he had slapped her. Normally she cried loudly when upset, but she was too stunned to make a sound.
"The Phantom came HERE," Raoul raged, "INTO MY HOUSE—AND YOU DIDN'T TELL ME?!"
"It wasn't important!" she wailed.
"HE COULD HAVE STOLEN YOU AWAY! USED YOU, MURDERED YOU, AND TOSSED YOUR BODY IN THE SEINE!"
"He wouldn't do that!"
"HA!"
"I told him I wasn't leaving, and he just left!"
Though his muscles were still tensed and his breathing still labored, the fire in his eyes lessened. "He left? That's all? He didn't touch you?"
"No!"
After a few moments her words sunk in, calming his rage. He swept the hair out of his face with a self-conscious hand, laughing a little in relief. Then he knelt before her—she had collapsed on the chaise, utterly overcome—and took her hands. "I'm so sorry, my pearl, my rose, my angel," he pleaded, "it's just that I love you so much, and I couldn't bear for anything to happen to you—please forgive me."
She sniffed and looked up. His handsome face was so wrought with distress, and his voice so golden and mellifluous and distraught, that she took pause. She supposed she couldn't blame him—if she were a man, she would probably be horribly jealous concerning a great beauty such as herself. But still, on top of lying to her, he had actually struck her! No gentleman could ever do something so unspeakable!
He saw the hesitation in her face and said hurriedly, holding her hands desperately to his chest, "Oh, my darling, I'm so sorry I struck you, it was out of my control, please don't be angry with me!"
"Well…" she said, rather uncertainly.
"Please, my love, I would just die if you were angry with me!"
"Okay," she said slowly.
"Thank you, thank you, my precious," Raoul murmured. He kissed her hands fervently, and the power of his happiness and relief thawed the ice-cold of her shock until she could summon a tentative smile to her face.
He stood, pulling her gently to her feet. "After breakfast, darling, allow me to prove my undying devotion and my sincere remorse for getting so angry—I'll buy you anything you like; chocolates, flowers, diamonds, gowns, anything."
She allowed him to kiss her—a soft kiss, with a cautious, subservient air that gave her a giddy feeling of power—and walked with him towards the door, the incident already almost forgotten.
As they exited her room, Raoul said, "But you must promise me to keep those doors bolted, my sweet—I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you!"
It was a little thing he asked, she supposed, and it was so wonderful to have him so madly in love with her, that she finally assented and he escorted her down to breakfast as if nothing had happened.